


The Stanley Games: Aftermath

by SaxuallyActive



Series: The Stanley Games [2]
Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Dystopia, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxuallyActive/pseuds/SaxuallyActive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the 2012 Stanley Games, everything falls apart. Now, Sean Couturier must piece everything, including himself, back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

_“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,_

_The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,_

_The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,_

_While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;_

_But O heart! heart! heart!_

_O the bleeding drops of red,_

_Where on the deck my Captain lies,_

_Fallen cold and dead._

_O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;_

_Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,_

_For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,_

_For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;_

_Here Captain! dear father!_

_This arm beneath your head!_

_It is some dream that on the deck,_

_You’ve fallen cold and dead._

_My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,_

_My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,_

_The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,_

_From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;_

_Exult O shores, and ring O bells!_

_But I with mournful tread,_

_Walk the deck my Captain lies,_

_Fallen cold and dead.”_

-Walt Whitman

 

 

The wind barely blew. The fireworks barely lit up the sky.

He was the King of Spades, he was the King of Clubs. Their suits were painted on their sunken in cheeks. Their eyeliner was thick, their hair was jelled into perfect, prince-like curls. And they each wore a plush, purple crown that put the Queen’s Crown Jewels to shame.

“Thank you.” Mike Richards said softly into a microphone as the cheering died down. “We are happy that Los Angeles can receive its first victory in the Stanley Games.”

He choked out every word. Of course it was scripted. But everyone cheered anyways.

“We both fought valiantly.” Mike twitched, as though someone flicked him in the brow. His brown curls fell into his eyes. “We are blessed to have your support.”

“Thank you for cheers.” Jeff Carter managed to spit out. He itched his blonde beard and a few people whistled. “We appreciate all of it.”

Mike stepped towards the microphone again. “I want to uh—“ He was going off script. “I want to take a moment to remember two guys who were especially close to us when we were on the Flyers during Pronger’s year. Danny and Claude—“ He breathed. “—were great guys and I hope their families can find peace right now during this hard—“

The microphone was turned off and the crowd was silent.

“You were right.” Mike whispered to Jeff. “They _were_ martyrs.”

“Now the question is—for who, or what?”

Mike reached for Jeff’s hand, and Jeff did not hesitate to lift their clasped hands up for all to see.

 _“Remember!”_ Jeff screamed. Then the lights went out.

 


	2. The Decoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

Sean Couturier stood where center ice should be at the Wells Fargo Center. Now only ruin existed around him. Snow danced in the cool January air, and the once beautiful ice that lay in the arena now seeped and froze into the places where it shouldn’t be.

He fingered the ring that hung at his neck as the final Stanley Cup banner drifted down from the support of the arena’s roof. _1974._

Sean pushed his hair behind his ears, his fingertips catching on the stitches on his temple. He flinched at the pain, but his fingers still returned to the healing wound. He felt the stitches under his fingertips again. He had to count them. There were nine. And there was one on the inside.

Sean had let his hair grow longer, but he continued to shave his beard. It was a personal thing. The last time he grew his beard out was when Danny and Claude…

“Stop thinking so much,” A gentle voice said, echoing through the skeleton of the arena.

“I can’t.” Sean replied, as Brayden Schenn stepped over a row of displaced seats. Luke Schenn followed him silently, his rifle at ready. Brayden was always the pretty boy, even during the aftermath. He kept his hair short and his face clean. Luke was the same way—they both kept their hair only long enough to spike up the front for special occasions.

“Why here?” Brayden spoke. His brown eyes scanned the wreckage. “Why do you always come here after a rough committee meeting?”

“Because they’re here…”

“Coots…” Brayden began.

“I can’t let it go, Brayden! I’m a revolution leader and a father all before I can even legally drink!” Sean shouted, grabbing the ring around his neck in his fist. “Danny was more than a roommate or a friend or even a lover, Brayden. He was my protector and mentor and I loved him, fuck—I still love him—and I love his sons— _my_ sons—“

He dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

“I can’t do this.” Sean whined.

“Yes you _can,_ Coots.” Brayden assured, stepping closer to Sean. Brayden bent over and laid a hand on Sean’s back. “Have faith.”

Sean let out a deep, shaky sigh. His shoulders heaved once more and he stood. A steady helicopter buzzed over the arena, causing Luke to flinch and point his weapon to the sky.

“Bettman’s Boys. We need to get him to safety.” Luke said to Brayden.

“C’mon Coots.” Brayden gently grasped Sean’s arm. Sean stood up and scurried out of sight of the helicopter. They ran down the old hallway that led to the locker room. Brayden pushed Sean down the hall. The Schenns were taking watch.

The locker room was covered in dust and grime but the words from Danny still permeated in the air.

_“Sean, sit down.”_

Sean approached the cubby where he would always pull his jersey off of a cheap plastic hanger before every home game. He dug his nails under the name plate labelling the cubby. The metal name plate popped off with ease. He looked around the room and his impulses took over. He had to take the rest.

Rinaldo and Jagr and Bob and Bryz and Hartsy and Timmo and—

Briere and Giroux.

Sean heard the Schenn brothers coming into the locker room and knew they were staring at him with the nameplates.

“Bettman’s Boys want to destroy this place soon.” He fibbed as he dropped the nameplates into his bag.

“For the gallery?” Luke inquired, switching his rifle onto safety.

“Yeah, I think it would be nice.” Sean replied.

“Well, the ‘copter is gone, I radioed for transport. Should be out the way we would go, yeah?”

“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

They made their way out of the arena to a truck waiting by the rear entrance. Zac Rinaldo had his boots on the dashboard, and was picking at his finger nails with his knife. He turned his head to the trio and grinned. He had let his hair grow out since the end of the games, and it was now almost long enough to be put into a ponytail.

“We need to get out of here.” Luke commanded. Zac rolled his eyes and stomped his feet down onto the floor mat, and started the truck up.

 _“Hey, honey, I’m home!”_  Zac imitated. “Nice to see you fuckers, too.”

Luke got into the front seat, and Brayden and Sean got in the back.

Zac pulled onto the hole-ridden Broad Street. Sean pulled out one of the nameplates and let his rugged fingertips rub over the forgotten nameplate.

S-C-O-T-T-H-A-R-T-N-E-L-L

_He was responsible._

Sean pulled out his phone and dialled a number he had memorised in the days before.

_“Please enter-“_

One more code Sean memorised. The line chirped at him, letting him know his call was going through.

_“Sir Couturier, how may I help you?”_

“How is he?”

_“Much better. He woke up today.”_

Sean sighed in relief. Brayden looked over at him.

“Thank god.”

_“He asked for you.”_

Sean paused. He looked out of the window at the dying city and felt a thick tremor erupt in his throat.

~~~

They were about to lead an offensive attack against some of Bettman’s most loyal members. He remembered securing Sidney Crosby’s Kevlar vest and making sure that the chain holding Evgeni’s ring and Kris’ ring was tucked under Sid’s shirt. Snow was dancing in the air around them.

He remembered Sid doing the same to him with his vest and his chain, which held Danny’s ring. He inspected Sid’s scarred face, which was a result of the most perfect torture.

Sid laid his hand upon Sean’s face and looked into his eyes. The wordless conversation between them ended when Sid placed his forehead against Sean’s forehead.

Sean watched Sid swagger off to his group. Sean then turned around to his group—Scott, the Schenn brothers, Zac, and Max Talbot.

Scott came up to Sean and placed a helmet upon Sean’s head.

“Hartsy, th’hell?”

“I’m your decoy today, kid.” Scott put a similar helmet on and grinned.

“Scott—“

“You’ll be in the back the entire time. I just need to look vague enough so they think I’m you.” Scott smiled and pushed a finger up under Sean’s chin.

“Scott, please…”

“Load it up!” Scott shouted to all the men in the area. The rebels all boarded their trucks. Scott got into the driver’s seat and yelled at Sean until he got into the back seat.

Luke was in the front seat, and Zac and Brayden sat with Sean in the back seat. Max manned the gun in the bed of the truck, and Scott began leading the rebels after he got the “okay” tap on the top of the cab from the gunners.

The walkie-talkie in Luke’s hand chirped happily. _“Gretsky is quiet.” “Parent is quiet.” “Lemieux is quiet.”_

“Howe is quiet—“ Scott began. He looked back at Sean. Sean nodded and adjusted his helmet.  “Follow.”

The convoy began moving through a ruined suburb of Philly. The ruins of office buildings and storefronts morphed into full buildings that still showed signs of destruction. Sean kept looking at the scenery. He watched ordinary people hide in their buildings, and wondered what kind of cold they were hiding from. Sean bowed his head and said a soft prayer.

“Coots,” Scott said as he put the brakes on the truck. “Roadblock. There are probably forces a block up. Should we?”

“Now or never.” Sean replied.

“Howe approves a play.” Scott announced.

_“Gretsky confirms.” “Parent confirms.” “Lemieux—“_

There was a pause.

 _“Lemieux is…_ ” Sid breathed heavily over the line. _“Fuck.”_

An explosion of the nearby Lemieux shattered the windows of Sean’s truck. Bullets sprayed their convoy, and Scott called for a retreat over the airwaves. Scott turned around to Sean and screamed for him to get down.

Sean ducked down in the back of the cab and covered his head. Gunshots rang out around him. He watched as Zac fired out the window. A hot casing from Zac’s rifle dropped down by Sean’s face, and Sean sat up and scooted back towards Brayden. Sean covered his ears and looked towards Scott. Scott was flooring the truck, and hopping over bumps and holes.

 _“Shit, Max, get down!”_ Scott screamed. He glanced back at Sean again and smiled.

 Sean couldn’t help but cry. _Lemieux._ Sid was driving, Rick Nash was in there, so was Marc-Andre Fleury. Sean pressed his face into his hands. Worthless, worthless. He let them die. He made the call and they were dead now.

There were more gunshots. The truck hit a huge bump. He felt the truck shift oddly and there was screaming. Zac pulled him up onto the seat a moment later.

“We’re safe now.” Zac said softly. Sean looked at Zac’s face. A piece of glass must have cut his face, since there were small streaks of blood dripping down his cheek.

Sean looked through the windshield. Luke was at the steering wheel.

“Sean, hold on tight, okay?” Luke said to Sean without turning his head. The truck was speeding between obstacles. The truck dipped into a hole and Sean’s head was slammed against the seat in front of him. A sharp pain shot through Sean’s skull.

Sean looked at the front seat. Scott was looking at his palms, which were covered in his own blood. Scott pressed his hands to his chest and looked back at Sean.

“Sean…”

_“No, no, no…”_

Luke began slowing down as they neared their small village. He pulled up to a makeshift hospital and put the truck in park. Luke, Brayden, and Zac got out of the truck as Jaromir Jagr ran to the truck. They were all screaming about Scott.

Sean got out and flung Scott’s door open.

Scott was bleeding all over his chest. Sean could recall the holes in Scott’s chest and how dark his blood was.

“Sean…this could’ve been you…” Scott said softly, reaching out for Sean. Sean took Scott’s hand and began crying.

“No, Scott…” Sean cried.

Scott gave Sean his other hand and smiled. Scott then reached for Sean’s face, but Scott’s eyes closed before he touched Sean.

Sean began babbling like a toddler and shook Scott violently. Sean was pulled away from Scott by Jaromir. Sean stumbled backwards and eventually fell to his knees. Sean cried out again and grabbed at the dirt under his palms. He smeared the dirt on his face. I am nothing, he cried. I am a peasant, not a king, he said. I am worthless. Sean took his helmet and threw it off.

Sean felt two big hands on his shoulders and heard a voice cooing to him. Kimmo Timonen helped Sean to his feet and began leading Sean away from the truck. Kimmo pressed his hand against Sean’s temple, where blood was spilling out from a cut. Everything began blurring then.

Peter Laviolette was standing at the entrance to the hospital. His stubble was moments short of a beard. Peter opened his arms to Sean, and Sean fell into him. Peter held Sean tightly as he watched Scott being carried from the truck.

Danny should’ve let Sean die. If Danny never volunteered, the country would be at peace. There would be no reaction to Claude and Danny’s relationship. The country would have never humanized them. The country wouldn’t have cared about Sean. But Claude and Danny were perfect. They were the beginning of it all.

And Peter would not live in fear. He would be lying in bed with his wife at two P.M. on Sunday. He would be twisting a lock of her hair in his fingers as the sunlight would bleed over her skin through the half-open, white curtains. He would be tracing the outline of her breast, rather than listening to a kid sobbing over his brother filled to the brim with bullets.

~~~

“Sean, we need to talk to you before you see him.”

“Lavy, I just want to see him.” Sean pleaded. They were at a stalemate in the hospital lobby.

“He’s not the same, kid…” Peter began.

“I don’t give a _shit,_ ” Sean snapped. “Would _you_ be the fucking _same_ after being shot up by Bettman’s Loyalists?”

“We’re worried about you.” Peter recited. “You’re not acting okay, and how you reacted when you showed up at the hospital set a lot of red flags up. Plus we’ve been talking to your friends about how you’re been acting.”

“And how have I been _acting_?” Sean sat down in a chair, expecting an answer.

“You’re compulsive, depressed, always acting like someone’s going to kill you around the corner. You’re exhibiting signs of extreme anxiety. We’re worried. All of us.”

“Then why am I your leader?” Sean shouted. “Why me?”

“Because not long ago you fucking wanted this.” Peter snapped back while stepping towards Sean. “You wanted to fight for Danny and Claude and you told me you wouldn’t give up until you put a bullet into Bettman’s head.” Peter pressed his finger into Sean’s forehead at the mention of the bullet. “Now make up your damn mind. Be our leader and get some damn help, or step down and let someone with enough humility and strength to take over.”

Sean breathed out and looked up at Peter.

“I just want to see Scott.” Sean replied.

“Fucking fine.” Peter said, moving out of Sean’s way. “He’s that way, third room on the left.”

Sean moved down the hall without any more conversation.

Scott was sitting up in his bed, and a nurse was tending to his wounds. His skin was raw and red. The stitches from each hole were etched into his skin like tattoos. Sean touched his own stitches and counted again. Nine. He started counting Scott’s stitches before the nurse noticed him.

“Oh— _Sir Couturier._ ”

He _loathed_ that name. But whatever made people happy.

“No—call me Sean, please.” He said softly.

“Oh,” the nurse stepped towards him. “Sean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like that.” Sean replied.

“How long has it been with those stitches in?” The nurse moved closer, examining Sean closely.

“No, please. Don’t worry about me. Take care of Scott.” Sean took a step back.

“I’m finished with him. How long have they been in? We may need to take them out.” The nurse collected her cart from the other side of the room and dropped her rubber gloves onto the cart.

“It’s been four days.” Sean said sternly.

The nurse walked up to Sean, and she pressed her index finger against the stitches. Sean flinched.

“Do they still hurt?”

“Sort of.”

“We’ll have to clean the wound. It’s looks good, but there is a little redness and swelling. Have you been playing with it?”

“No.” Sean fibbed.

“Well, that’s strange. Go ahead and sit with Mr. Hartnell—I’ll come back and take the stitches out as you two talk.” The nurse smiled and brushed past Sean. She smelt like green tea and roses.

“Come sit, Coots.” Scott urged while lifting his arm up slightly. Sean dragged a chair over to Scott’s bedside. “How’d you get the stitches on your forehead?”

“I hit my head in the truck, and my helmet kinda smushed me.” Sean laughed lightly, and Scott smiled.

“What’s today’s date?” Scott pondered out loud.

“January twelfth, I think.” Sean wasn’t really keeping track of dates anymore—but only the days that passed.

Scott paused and thought to himself for a moment. “Do you know what today is?”

Sean, too, paused and thought. “No, Scott, I don’t know. Saturday?”

“It’s Claude’s birthday. He would’ve been twenty-five.”

“And Danny, thirty-five.”

“Yeah.” Scott replied softly. He nodded his head in response. “But he was a fall baby. October somethin’, right?”

“October sixth.” Sean grabbed at his chest, his fingers searching for the ring.

The nurse came back with a new cart, and moved over to Sean with a pair of scissors and gauze.

“Now, just hold still. This will only take a second.”

Scott reached for Sean’s hand. Sean held Scott’s hand loosely as the nurse clipped at the stitches. Sean shut his eyes as the nurse tugged lightly at the stitches.

“It looks good so far, but you’ll need to apply medicine to it so it doesn’t get infected.” The nurse dropped the removed stitches into a petri dish on the cart. She poked at Sean’s wound, and Sean flinched away from her. However, she gently grabbed Sean’s ear and pulled him back towards her and continued examining the wound.

“It’s tender.” Sean informed the nurse.

“That tends to happen. I thought you had stitches before.”

“Yeah, but it still hurts a little bit.”

“Just make sure you wash it out and apply some antibiotic ointment to it every day. I’ll go see if we have any small tubes of it in supply.” The nurse pulled off her gloves and started walking out of the room. “But another thing—“ she turned to Sean. “—don’t rub any dirt on your face, that’s probably how it got that way in the first place.” And she left.

“Why the hell did you rub dirt on your face?” Scott asked.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sean pulled his hand away from Scott.

“I _am_ worrying about it. So talk.”

Sean rolled his eyes. “I went postal when I saw you.”

“I figured as much.” Scott said as he pressed a button, allowing more pain medication into his blood stream.

“What did they give you?”

“Not a fucking clue, but boy does it feel good.” Scott laughed. Sean smiled at Scott’s laughter. It was nice hearing him laugh.

“Do you feel okay?”

“Sean,” Scott was getting serious now. “I was shot about six times. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

After six minutes, Scott dozed off to sleep, and Sean put the chair back exactly where he found it.

Sean left Scott’s room silently. As he walked out of the room, the nurse stopped Sean and gave him a doggy bag of ointment and gauze.

“Now, if it stings or swells anymore, you need to come back here so we can treat it. Alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Sean just wanted to get out of the hospital. He took the bag and walked out to the lobby. Peter was waiting for him, asleep in a chair. Sean walked up and kicked Peter’s foot gently.

Peter awoke easily, and looked up at Sean.

“How was he?” Peter said as he stretched.

“Fine. Tired, but fine.” Sean fumbled with his bag. “Today is Claude’s birthday.”

“Is it really?” Peter stood up and grabbed his jacket.

“Yeah. Hartsy told me.”

Peter zipped his jacket up at stared at the floor.

“You coming, Coach?” Sean asked.

“Yeah, sorry, kid.” Peter followed Sean out into the bitter Pennsylvania cold, just as thunder erupted from the heavens.

_Remember._


	3. Lucidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

The lights came on.

Mike breathed heavily as his eyes took focus on the room. Just as his pupils began to constrict to the light, a punch landed on his left cheek, sending him to the floor. He was tied to a chair.

“Sorry, I had to.” A thick Swedish voice spoke.

Mike felt the chair get pulled upright again. Standing in front of him was Henrik Sedin.

“Henrik—“

Henrik pushed the chair back onto two legs. He stared into Mike’s eyes.

“I want to kill you like you killed Daniel.” Henrik whispered. “But slower.”

Henrik slammed the chair forward and walked away from Mike.

“It was the bloodbath, Henrik. It was the games. You and I both know that you have to do what you have to in order to stay alive.”

“You grabbed him, took him down, and bashed his head in.” Henrik sneered. “You could’ve let him _live._ ”

“I have it now, Henrik. You may leave.” Someone spoke from behind Mike. Henrik turned around and walked past Mike, making sure to kick his chair as he passed.

Gary Bettman walked past Mike, stabilising himself with a cane. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at Mike. He sighed, his jowls dropping.

“I’m disappointed, Mr. Richards.” Gary began. “You violated your Victor’s contract.”

“I wanted my friends to have a eulogy.”

“They were not your _friends,_ Mr. Richards.” Gary turned himself around and faced Mike. “They were _Tributes_.”

“I loved Danny and Claude, they were the best friends I could ever have when I was—“

“—on the Flyers, yes, yes; but remember that we moved you from Philadelphia to Los Angeles for a _reason._ ” Gary finished as he waved his hand. “Oh dear, could you get me a chair and some water?”

“Yes sir.” A woman said from behind Mike. It was probably one of Gary’s personal servants.

“How is speaking for the dead violating the contract I was forced to sign?” Mike asked.

The servant came into Mike’s view carrying a chair. She was just shorter than Gary, and was young. Early twenties, probably a poor university student. She didn’t acknowledge Mike, but she bowed to Gary. She sat the chair in front of Mike and handed Gary a glass of water.

“You may leave, Tiffany.” Gary said as he sat down in his chair. He pressed the brim of the glass to his chapped lips and drank. “Well, Mr. Richards, Mr. Briere and Mr. Giroux were very _rebellious_ during their tenure in the Games. We _did_ mark Mr. Briere.”

Mike twisted angrily in his chair.

“Their _friendship_ fueled protest. Such a shame…Mr. Briere was a father to three beautiful sons. Too bad he was so selfish and desperate for pride that he volunteered for Mr. Couturier. Mr. Briere’s career was sinking quickly. It was just a death wish volunteering for that _boy_. Old man wanted to go down in flames, I presume. He’ll never grow as old as I am. Damn shame.”

Gary smiled and tapped Mike’s foot with his cane.

“As for Mr. Giroux, I pity him.” Gary laid his cane across his lap. “He was going insane. Such a shame though, he had a lot of potential to be a great Victor.” Gary looked up at Mike and smiled. “Would you have killed him if the Flyers made it that far?”

“Where’s Jeff?”

“You didn’t answer _my_ question, Mr. Richards.”

“Why should I?”

Gary leaned forward and smiled. “Because I have you in my grip, Mr. Richards, and I can squeeze the life out of you whenever I damn well please.”

“I’m too valuable, you wouldn’t kill me.” Mike taunted, tilting his chin up.

Gary sighed and began to speak as he fidgeted with his cane. “Victors are defective players—they believe they are invincible.”

“Where is Jeff?” Mike said sternly.

Gary pulled the top of his cane off, revealing a small dagger attached to the top part of the cane. “Answer me first, Mr. Richards.”

Mike glared at Gary, his lips pushed together.

“Would you have slit his throat?” Gary stood up and placed the small dagger under Mike’s chin. “Or would you have stabbed him in the back just like Mr. Sharp did to Mr. Pronger? A mercy killing, perhaps? Would you have made his death passionate?”

Mike closed his eyes. Gary placed the tip of the dagger on Mike’s lips.

“Mr. Richards, it’s no fun if you don’t respond.”

Mike opened his eyes and looked into Gary’s cold eyes. Gary’s breathing was deep and slow, he was anticipating Mike’s answer.

“I would have let him kill me.” Mike admitted.

“Self-sacrifice. That isn’t a _King-like_ thing to do.” Gary sighed, obviously disappointed. He removed the dagger from Mike’s mouth and struck his face, leaving a shallow cut along Mike’s left cheek.

“That’s what I said. That’s my answer.” Mike croaked as he caught his breath.

Gary wiped his dagger off and sighed.  He backed up and sat in his chair. He placed his dagger back into his cane. “Mr. Carter doesn’t matter anymore.”

“ _What?_ Where is he?” Mike asked again.

Gary paused. “Death row.”

Mike felt his body heave. He dropped his head down in defeat and gasped for air. His blood dripped off his face and into his lap. His face paled, and his eyesight grew dark.

“But—“ Gary offered, “I will take him off of it for one thing and one thing only.”

“Anything.” Mike begged.

“I need you to contact an old friend of your’s.”

~~~

“That was _tedious_.” Gary said as he left Mike’s room.

“Did you get him to fold, sir?” Asked a middle-aged, blonde man, who was leaning against the wall by the room. He towered over Gary, and looked to be nearly twenty years younger than Gary.

“Absolutely, Martin.” Gary said casually, motioning for Martin to follow with a flick of the wrist. Gary continually used his cane to support himself as he walked down the hall.

“Death row trick?” Martin asked.

Gary simply gave a knowing smile. “Now it’s time to see how Jeff is doing.”

They arrived at another door, and Gary stopped in front of the door. Martin opened the door for him and let him walk through first.

They stepped into one side of an interrogation room, and they observed Jeff Carter sitting in the middle of the other side of the one-way mirror, donned in a pair of black shorts and a black shirt.

“He hasn’t moved in days.”  Martin announced as he read through a log book sitting on the table by the door.

“Food intake?”

“Minimal, only water.”

Gary watched Jeff closely. Jeff was sitting with his legs crossed, arms relaxed, head bowed, and eyes closed. Gary grinned and tapped on the glass. Martin spun around to watch Jeff’s reaction.

Jeff lifted his head and the bright light of the room cast over his face, revealing protruding cheekbones. He opened his tired eyes and popped his chin up.

“What a shit,” Gary began. “He’s still a shit.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Martin said softly.

“Play the interrogation tapes for me, please.”

Martin sat down at the table and accessed the console on the wall and played Jeff’s initial interrogation tape.

_“Today is June thirteenth, two thousand and twelve. My name is Brendan Shanahan, director of player discipline. Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Carter?”_

_“Because you’re all assholes?”_

_“You are being held here because you committed an act of sedition against the National Hockey Dynasty. This is punishable by up to ten years in prison and may develop into charges of treason.”_

_“Treason? For telling a group of people to remember my dead friends?”_

_“Your dead ‘friends’ are responsible for starting a rebellion against the National Hock—“_

_“They had fucking families! Danny had sons and Claude—“_

_“Mr. Carter—“_

Jeff began screaming on the recording.

“Stop that nonsense.” Gary commanded. The recording paused, leaving a crisp silence in the room. Gary looked longingly at Jeff. Jeff slowly blinked at the one-way mirror in front of him.

“Mr. Brodeur—what should we do about him?”

“You mean Jeff?”

“Yes.”

Martin Brodeur approached the one-way mirror and stood to Gary’s right.

“I would consider using Mike still as the primary plan—but if that doesn’t work, weaponize Jeff and let him destroy the rebellion.” Martin said. He glanced over at Gary, who was staring him down. “But of course, that’s just a suggestion, sir.”

“Understood,” Gary began. “I feel as though we should keep Jeff under wraps, let him get angry, redirect his anger. Brainwash him.”

“Will you do the same to Mike?” Martin asked politely.

Gary shook his head. “He’s already turning against them; we have nothing to worry about. He’ll brainwash himself. His passion for his friend reminds me of the passion Daniel held for Claude: blind, stupid…”

Gary turned away from the one-way mirror and began hobbling out of the room.

“So what’s next, sir?” Martin asked plainly.

“We let our Victors do the dirty work, Mr. Brodeur.” Gary stated in a matter-of-fact tone. He rapped his cane on the door frame and continued hobbling out of the room.

Martin pressed his lips together and exhaled from his nose as he followed Gary. He took a look back at Jeff, who slowly lowered his head once more. Martin tried figuring Jeff out. He figured it wasn’t worth the brain power, and he closed the door to Jeff’s containment room.

The pair walked down the hall in silence until they reached an elevator. Martin pressed the “UP” button and they waited. It came after a moment and let out a happy ding as it opened its doors. Gary got into the elevator first.

“Where to?” Martin asked as he entered the elevator.

Gary paused for a moment.

“Prison level, please.”

_“Please.”_ Martin said softly. “I’m doing well; please don’t do this to me, sir. Please.”

“I said, ‘ _Prison level, please.’_ ” Gary repeated in a monotone voice.

Martin placed a thumb over the button and pushed it. His hands were shaking, his muscles began to tense.

“This is insurance, Mr. Brodeur.” Gary began. “I know you understand our agreement but it needs to remain fresh in your mind to ensure optimum performance. Just like the Games did. Insurance against a rebellion—keep the wound from scarring over. But you will have your victory soon, Mr. Brodeur. But you must continue onward.”

Martin did not move. Gary did not move.

“Go on, now. You know where to go.”

Martin stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hall. Tears escaped his eyes. They passed each steel-clad door, each with a different prison ID number on it. Surprisingly, the hallway was relatively silent.

They turned down a side hallway and continued walking until they stopped at a particular cell. Martin froze in his shoes.

_“Go.”_ Gary commanded, hitting the floor with his cane.

“You know I have and will devote my life to serving you.” Martin choked out.

“You know the consequences if you do not follow my orders, Mr. Brodeur.” Gary replied.

Martin Brodeur placed his hand on the movable steel plate on the door, and he tried flipping it down to reveal a small window. But his hands were far too shaky. He tried once more and succeeded. He looked over at Gary, tears streaming down his face.

_“Martin.”_

Martin looked into the cell.

Inside the cell, was Martin’s eldest son, withering into skin and bones at the tender age of seventeen.


End file.
